Those So Descended
by Peradan
Summary: A prequel to Better Choice. Why was Faramir sent, anyway? When Elphir of Dol Amroth's wife falls ill, his younger brother Erchirion is sent in his stead. Remarkable what an exchange of brothers can do...


They rose as one, turned to face the west. Always before his mind had rested on their lost home, Atalantë that he had watched sink beneath the waves. Today his thought only briefly touched fallen Númenor, instead looking beyond. _They have remembered us; or never forgotten, even as we ourselves begin to. _He sat down, his mind turning to his absent cousin, who he loved dearly, yet— _It is always "yet" with him. He should not go; he must not go. He was called, yes, but not chosen. Why does he wish to? He has no great love for the Eldar; or even interest in them. There is something—what _is_ Boromir doing? He's never late._

Erchirion of Dol Amroth could think of a number of places he would rather be—most notably, back home with his family in Dol Amroth. Fishing at the bottom of the Bay of Belfalas was also beginning to sound oddly attractive. It had been three days since the council began deliberating, and if today was anything like the day before, he thought he would run mad before it finished. Or perhaps before it started, if Boromir didn't get here soon.

The other councillors were beginning to murmur. Erchirion bristled. While he personally found his cousin patronising, overbearing, and none too bright, that didn't give anyone else the right to speak disparagingly of the Steward's heir, particularly in the presence of said Steward—not when Erchirion was sitting next to him, in lieu of his elder brother, whose wife had unexpectedly fallen ill. At least Faramir, his favourite relation, was next to him as well, expression coolly inscrutable in the best Númenórean tradition. It was not terribly comforting, but he knew that Faramir was only preoccupied, as was usual since his return from Osgiliath. He had always been a little absent-minded, but he seemed to be walking in another world these days. Not that Erchirion blamed him; receiving direct messages from the Valar was no doubt an alarming experience, not to mention facing the Black Riders.

Maps scattered over the table, tracing the route Faramir, or Boromir, would take, from Minas Tirith to Edoras, to the boundaries of lost Arnor. And from there—west into Eriador, and wandering about until he happened upon Rivendell, or more likely, Rivendell happened upon him. No wonder Húrin, and the rest of the Council, were so unenthusiastic about sending Boromir on the errand. The lord of the Council, however, was still undecided, and the final decision would rest with him.

_Boromir must not go. _The sure knowledge was sudden but not unfamiliar; a gift, his father said, and sometimes it was. Yet how could he be certain Faramir would be sent? Most of the Council would prefer to send Faramir, if anyone at all, but that would not sway Denethor. He could not perceive his uncle's thought and would never make the attempt; but in this it was clear enough. It was a dangerous journey, and Boromir was needed in Gondor. Denethor did not wish to risk him on such an ephemeral matter. Yet he wished, as always, to grant Boromir his desire, whatever that desire might be. _How may I influence him? I cannot simply say: send Faramir, he is not so valuable and the dreams were clearly meant for him in any case. How does one out-maneuver an expert manipulator? _The Steward was a spider, spinning his threads so expertly that none could even detect their presence.

_Almost none_. Erchirion lifted his head, met his cousin's eyes. _It must be Faramir, _he thought once more, and his mind wandered to Rivendell, and what would be found there. Boromir, in Rivendell, surrounded by Elves and books and ancient artifacts? It boggled the imagination. But Faramir, Faramir with his music and stories and books, he was the perfect one to send—as anyone with eyes could see.

Boromir eventually arrived, limping slightly; apparently he'd had an accident of some sort. Nothing that would bother him for more than a few hours. Erchirion paid little attention to the council, which appeared to be going nowhere (nothing surprising there), instead concentrating on his elder cousin. Boromir sat across from him, as usual paying him little note, his expression stern. He was a good, kindly man, for all his faults, and a mighty warrior; Gondor needed him, _here_. Erchirion glanced at his leg, then at Faramir, and an idea entered his mind.

Very early the next day, Erchirion loitered outside the Houses of Healing, waiting for Faramir to come out. "How is he?" he asked, trying to appear concerned. He had been very careful; he knew that Boromir's injury was not serious.

"He'll be fine," Faramir said, clearly exhausted. Erchirion felt a twinge of guilt, but ruthlessly suppressed it. He had done what needed to be done. It was not what Elphir would have done, had he been here as usual, nor father, and certainly not Faramir, who Erchirion had always attempted to emulate, but it had been necessary. "He should be walking again in a few weeks."

"Oh, that's good," Erchirion, not accustomed to deceit, managed to mumble. Faramir raised an eyebrow.

"I am to take the errand," he said abruptly. "Since Boromir cannot, my lord father insists that I go in his stead."

_In his stead, indeed! _"That's good news—is it not?"

"Oh, excellent news. While, naturally, I would not wish any pain on my brother, it was only a mild injury and he should recover quickly. No, it is quite _remarkably _providential." Faramir's clear grey eyes, identical to his own, rested intently upon his face. Erchirion felt nearly as uncomfortable as the time Denethor and Adrahil had caught him throwing pebbles at the White Tree. Sometimes his cousin seemed to bear an uncanny resemblance to their grandfather.

"Well—coincidences are peculiar things," he offered feebly. "Fate works in strange ways."

"And rarely without assistance," said Faramir. Erchirion darted a glance at him, certain that his cousin knew exactly what he'd done. He wondered if deliberately injuring the Steward's heir counted as treason.

But he never found the answer. Faramir's expression changed, grew more sober but less authoritative. "When do you leave for Dol Amroth, Erchirion?"

"I—three days hence."

"I am already packed," Faramir observed, "and will leave as soon as I can. You will give Ailinel my best wishes?"

"Of course."

"And please send my regards to your family, and our aunt."

"Certainly." Erchirion eyed Faramir, who suddenly seemed very grave, and very young; he did not look as if he could possibly be Erchirion's age, let alone seven years older. What would he see when Faramir returned, if he returned at all?

"Thank you. Farewell, cousin; I hope we meet again."


End file.
